Virus
by riah riddle
Summary: Chromia knows everything. Even when Elita's going to get a virus. OptimusxElita. Please see warnings in A/N at beginning of chapter.


It's a little graphic and gross. It's not pretty when someone has a virus. Especially when they're throwing up. If that upsets you, please don't read. For the rest, enjoy some Optimus and Elita in a real-life situation. After all, you know someone really loves you when they watch you puke. And then take care of you and bring you a trash can to heave in.

Virus

Chapter One

"I'm being dead serious, Chromia," Her voice rang out across the vast expanse of the shooting range. Both femmes had given up shooting and were now leaning against the benches and facing one another. "This is beginning to make me crazy. Optimus has never worked himself this hard in the past." Elita One turned around to face her target once more, squaring her stance and firing off a few angry shots. The drone she was shooting fell to the ground with a pitiful whine.

"Except for when he's trying to get you off, right?"

Elita sighed; Chromia's snarkiness had only increased since she and Ironhide had been reunited on earth. Not that she minded so terribly, seeing the dusky blue femme so unbelievably happy made all the little barbs bearable. That one, however, was a little uncalled for.

"Optimus gets me off with hardly a touch, Mia. Perhaps he should give Ironhide some tips," Elita threw a sly look over her shoulder at the femme behind her, a smirk gracing her features. "That way you won't have to lay awake for hours looking at the ceiling and wondering if you're ever going to overload."

"Mmm… We do enjoy overloading one another for hours," Chromia grinned wickedly at her best friend. "If I wasn't so attached to my Ironhide, I'd lend him to you for a few hours. You know, so you can actually get a little stress relief."

To her credit, Elita simply laughed. It had been a while since she'd gotten some stress relief. Either from overloading or just from relaxing. She'd barely been able to see Chromia or Optimus for a long while. Diplomatic trips seemed to be her main source of helping the Autobot cause lately.

"I could use some stress relief. Just not from Ironhide," She moved away from the shooting stall, pressing a small button on the wall. The poor drone bleeped and limped back into the storage closet. Chromia did the same over by her wall, the only difference was that Chromia's drone was unable to move or make noise. It was utterly destroyed. The smoke rising from its form was the only indication that it had once been functioning.

"Femme. You need to go track down your mech. I swear, if he doesn't start keeping better care of you, you're going to be the one getting a virus, not him." Chromia said, leaning her hip against the bench, evaluating her Commander's stance.

Elita was definitely under some major pressure. There was no denying that the femme looked a little…off. She was dull; her paint was worn in places, revealing the plain metal underneath. There was a lack of her Commanding presence. They were small details; Chromia was sure that none of the humans would even notice. But to her, they were tell-tale signs that Elita was stressed. Not only was she stressed, but her mate was not taking proper care of her. That femme was going to come down with a virus. Chromia just knew it.

"I'll be fine, Mia. I haven't gotten a virus in ages. Besides, I've been under more stress than this before. I just need to go recharge." With that, the Femme Commander bid her best friend and confidant goodbye and started the walk back to her quarters. Chromia stared at Elita's backplates, noting how slowly the other femme was walking.

"She's going to be _so_ sick tomorrow."

* * *

The next morning dawned bright and clear. The sun had begun to rise above the horizon, dew drops shimmering on the unspoiled grass. There was a light mist in the air, the sunlight making the trees and rocks look nearly ethereal. Deer in the clearing outside the base were happily and calmly munching on the grass, fawns sticking close to their mother's sides.

And Elita-One was purging her tanks as though the solution to the war resided at the bottom.

Luckily for her, Optimus had, once again, gotten up far too early. Normally she was angry with him, but today she was thankful. There was nothing worse than having Optimus obsess over her while she was trying to greet her morning energon for the second time.

She had decided at some point that morning that she was going to die. There was no way in pit that she was going to survive any more of this. The burning sensation in her throat tubing and the wrenching spasms of her tank were worse than getting stepped on by Omega Supreme. She was going to die like this. On her hands and knees, bent over a waste receptacle in her washrack.

The worst part would be when the other Autobots found her cold grey corpse. They would see their illustrious Femme Commander, Elita-One, lying beside a waste receptacle full of her own regurgitated energon. Maybe if Optimus found her first he would make up some sort of story about how she had died with honor and courage while fighting an invisible army of scraplets.

She moaned, feeling the telling wrenching of her tanks. She braced herself on hands and knees and just waited. Her rosy helm was slack above the bin, waiting for more to come up. At this point, she wouldn't have been surprised to find her circuitry come out of her mouth. Just as she managed to heave up another round of energon, a voice rumbled through the washracks.

"Elita? Oh, Primus," Optimus's baritone competed with the sounds of Elita's energon hitting the bottom of the receptacle. Unfortunately, the large mech was softly-spoken when in his quarters and around his mate. This left the sound of spoilt energon hitting the metal of the waste bin to resound through the room. Luckily, Optimus and Elita had been through much worse than hearing someone eject their contents.

However, it never gets more mortifying than violently ejecting half-digested energon in front of the love of your life.

After she had finished that round of violent upheaval from her tanks, she spoke. "Optimus. Please leave. If you love me, you'll leave." Her voice was torn to shreds, her normally husky and sexy voice was nothing short of raspy.

"No, Elita. You're coming with me, sweetspark," Optimus bent down and picked her up as though she wasn't certifiably hazmat. She moaned to herself, silently praying to any deity that would listen. 'Please don't eject on my mate, please don't eject on my mate…'

"Please don't take me to the Hatchet," Elita moaned, turning her faceplates into his chestplates. There was inherent danger in doing so, but he was so warm and she was so cold. "He'll kill me anyways. Just let me die in peace. Please, Optimus…"

Optimus didn't respond and she couldn't summon the strength to lift her helm and look him in the optics. Instead, she went back to praying. She'd never prayed this hard in her entire life. Primus forgive her.

When she felt a cool metallic surface, her helm titled to the side. Optimus had deposited her on their berth. His hand slipped beneath her helm and adjusted the pillows so she was in more of a sitting position. Before she could utter another word, he disappeared back into the washracks, returning with the soiled waste bin.

She bit back a moan of utter embarrassment. There were some things that your mate simply should not have to see. That was one of them.

"Since when does the Hatchet make housecalls?" She asked, feeling the churning in her tanks again. Maybe if she let him distract her…

"Ratchet is aware that a violently ejecting femme is not likely to inspire confidence in the humans. There are many on base today. I do not think they would want to drown in your leftovers." Optimus's bright optics softened and he looked down at her with affection glowing in his features.

The door to their quarters whooshed open and Ratchet's footsteps could be heard coming through their den. He stopped when he reached the doorway. Shrewd optics quickly took stock of the scene before him. A femme lying in the berth, looking like death warmed over. A mech seated gingerly on the edge of said berth. An energon covered waste bin on the floor next to the berth. Classic signs of a terrible day.

"Alright, Elita. I'm going to run a scan and make sure it's just a small virus. If it is, I'll give you a sedative and you'll have to rest for a few orns." Ratchet moved to her bedside, careful not to block the trash bin. Vorns of treating patients had left him with several die-hard rules. One of those was to _Never_ block the trash can. Patients would easily substitute his feet or chassis instead. After a few moments, Ratchet stepped away.

"Simple Theta-Code virus. Over working, stress and fatigue. Easily cured with some recharge," He then took out a small syringe, already filled with a muscle cable relaxant and a light sedative. "This should keep you from ejecting any more energon. It'll help you recharge as well." With hands honed by thousands of vorns of war, he easily accessed a main line and administered the drugs.

With a nod to Elita and general instructions to call him if she worsened, Ratchet left the couple. As she was falling rapidly into recharge, getting warmer and more relaxed, Elita distantly realized that the greatest love of all was that of a mech willing to hold you and comfort you. Especially when you were ejecting something that could be considered hazardous waste of some sort.

She fell into recharge surrounded by the warmth and love of a mech who was mech enough to love her at her best and her worst. And she would definitely count today as one of her worst.

* * *

I just wanted to write something short and sweet. And real life applicable. Sorry if it grossed anyone out. Sometimes I like to portray my characters in real situations. Puking is a real life situation. But, you know they love you deeply when they care about you and sit in bed with you while you produce hazardous waste. Reviews for gross and adorable love?


End file.
